The treasury of Khazad-dûm lay in its deepest vaults, at the end of a narrow tunnel hewn by dwarven hands. At the tunnel's end stood a massive door, wrought of Mithril and black iron, carved with runes and sealed by a secret code that only the dwarves knew.

"This," Balin explained proudly to Sylas and Gandalf, "is the last untouched treasury of Durin's folk. Its defenses were the strongest of all. The walls and ceiling are lined with Mithril and iron, and even the door cannot be opened save by a dwarven riddle-lock. The Orcs, for all their digging, could never break through. Thus, by the foresight of our fathers, this vault remained hidden from flame and plunder."

Yet as he spoke, Balin's face was tinged with sorrow. "Once, the halls of Moria were richer than kings' dreams. The veins of Mithril fed our forges, and the treasure of the world was gathered here.

But when the Balrog awoke and the kingdom fell, though it cared nothing for gold, the Orcs stripped what they could. They mined what Mithril remained, sending it east to serve the armies of the Dark Lord. Only this vault endured, for our forebears built it to withstand even such ruin."

With a smile bright as a boy's, Balin placed his hands upon the stone, spoke the ancient words, and with a deep grinding sound, the great door swung open.

Inside, the firelight leapt and danced upon riches beyond imagining. The vault was vast, its ceiling held aloft by a single pillar plated in gold. The floors, the walls, even the roof glimmered with golden sheaths. Piled to the height of hills were coins of every mint, gems and jewels flashing in every hue, works of art and craft wrought by dwarven hands in ages past.

Chains of emeralds, circlets of ruby, goblets of diamond, glories enough to dazzle the eyes of kings.

Arwen drew in a soft breath of wonder, while Sylas simply gaped, his lips curling into a grin. "Well," he whispered, "that's… not bad."

Half this hoard, by Balin's own oath, now belonged to him. Far more than the mere one-tenth share he had once been promised at Erebor.

Gandalf, as before, waved aside the offer. He took only a small pouch of coins, muttering that he might finally buy some decent pipe-weed in the Shire. Sylas, by contrast, wasted no time. With a flick of his wand, he expanded his enchanted satchel and swept in half the treasure. After all, he had people and beasts to provide for, not least a dragon whose idea of a comfortable bed involved mounds of coin and jewels.

To Balin's credit, he did not begrudge Sylas his eagerness. The dwarf-lord knew well that the true wealth of Moria was not in these glittering piles but in the living veins of Mithril that still ran deep beneath the mountains. As long as those veins remained, the fortune of Durin's House could always be renewed.

When at last they emerged from the vault, Balin clapped his hands and led them toward the First Hall, where a great fire roared in the hearth.

Balin proudly led Sylas to the newly-carved hearth built into the stone wall. With great ceremony, he explained that the dwarves had labored to construct the passageway and forge the runic channels, but it was Sylas's spellwork that had bound the fire to the Floo Network.

"This is the first gate of its kind under the Misty Mountains," Balin declared, beard bristling with pride. "The dwarves built the stonework and runes, but you, Sylas, gave it life. And so I name the price of passage: for every grain of Floo powder you provide, I will give you one grain of mithril in return."

The rate was staggering, mithril for Floo powder, weight for weight. Any other wizard would have thought the dwarves mad. But Sylas, barely able to contain his grin, gave no protest. The thought of such trade filled his head with possibilities, especially if he could find a way to scale Floo powder production without grinding every pinch by hand.

Then Balin grew more hesitant. "There is… another matter," he began, his voice lower now. "The deepest tunnels of Moria, the very lair where the Balrog once dwelt, are also the richest in Mithril. But since the Demon's reign, those caverns have become rivers of fire. Lava flows endlessly, and no dwarf can endure the poisonous fumes. We cannot reclaim the veins unless something is done. Will you look into it?"

Gandalf and Sylas exchanged a glance. The Balrog was slain, yes, yet perhaps its dominion had scarred the roots of the world. Curious and concerned, they agreed.

On enchanted brooms, they flew down through the winding shafts, deeper and deeper. The air grew hotter by the minute, until sweat steamed off their skin. At last, the tunnel opened into a cavern where molten rivers glowed, casting a suffocating sulfur stench into the air.

Sylas conjured protective wards and a charm against poison, then raised his staff. A jet of enchanted water burst forth, cascading upon the lava below. Steam rose in billows, filling the cavern with a blinding fog. The lava cracked and hardened into silvery veins, and when Sylas leaned closer, his eyes widened.

"It's Mithril!" he exclaimed. The rivers had been molten Mithril-ore itself, flowing like silver fire.

Yet one vent still raged, spilling raw heat and refusing to cool. Both wizards knew instantly: this was the Balrog's own chamber.

The Flame Demon's Lair

They advanced warily, potion-strengthened, wards wrapped tight. The deeper they went, the hotter the air seared their lungs, hot enough to melt steel. And then they saw it: the Balrog's lair.

A vast cavern spread out before them. Its floor was a lake of lava, and in the center rose a single black basalt platform, untouched by fire. What caught their gaze, though, were the walls: covered in thick, translucent red crystals that shimmered like glass, glowing with fierce elemental power.

Sylas touched the nearest wall, jerking his hand back instantly. "Flame crystals," Gandalf breathed, astonished. "Forged over millennia by fire and sorcery. These are rarer even than Mithril. Weapons wrought from them can channel fire itself, and no flame may harm the one who bears them."

Sylas's grin spread from ear to ear. "Then it seems, our luck is very good!"

Gandalf chuckled. "Take them, then. I have no need for such things, save perhaps one small shard, to strike a flame for my pipe."

So, with Aeglos, Sylas pried the crystals from the rock, storing each blazing shard in a runed Mithril chest enchanted to contain their furious heat. Even with wards and potions, the crystals burned his palms as he worked. But piece by piece, the cavern walls were stripped bare until the oppressive heat began to fade.

Together, Gandalf and Sylas raised their staffs, weaving ice and storm. Their spells crashed over the molten river, freezing it into solid rock. Steam hissed and shrieked, echoing through the cavern like a thousand banshees, until the fire gutters were quenched. Slowly, the temperature dropped, and the river became a gleaming bed of Mithril-veins.

When it was done, Gandalf tapped one flame crystal lightly with the Ring of Fire. At once, the shard dimmed, becoming a ruby-like gem. He slipped it into his pocket with a smile.

"Remember this, Sylas," Gandalf warned. "These crystals are tainted with the Demon's malice. They must be purified, sunlight will do, given years, though the light of Eärendil would cleanse them faster. Use both, and they may yet serve as fire reborn, instead of fire corrupted."

Sylas nodded his head gratefully.

...

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